


I Hate My Life by Alfred Jones

by Nolesr1



Series: Alfred and the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alfred is an Omega, Alfred sees something who doesn't know how to react to, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, FrUK, FrUSUK, Francis and Arthur are Alphas, Gen, I don't know what I'm doing with my life, M/M, Multi, USUK - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:04:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nolesr1/pseuds/Nolesr1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred Jones (17 year-old Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D and Omega leader) hates his job. All he wants to do is go back to the house, study for his remaining final, and get this stupid mission over and done with. It doesn't help that the two morons that he's supposed to be watching honestly do not give two fucks about what happens to themselves, thus making Alfred's job that much harder. </p><p>Alfred wants to go back, study for some tests in a college that he had gotten in due to his own credentials (fuck you, all you nay sayers who believe that Omega's are only good for breeding!). He doesn't want to stay here and-</p><p>Oh fuck. He shouldn't have walked through those doors. Dammit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hate My Life by Alfred Jones

The music blasts through the overcrowded, dark room and Alfred has to side-step to avoid yet another dancing duo. The house where the party is at is crowded and tight, the air thick with the smells of alcohol that he can’t consume for another four years, sex (yeah for young adults!), and even more illegal contraband than Alfred wants to think about. It seems that European teens celebrate the end of another school year the same way as their American counterparts.

Someone slams into Alfred and he stumbles, trying to regain his footing. The music thrums through the air, dark, sultry, and tempting, everything that a party could ever need. Especially a party filled to the brim with young, rich college—sorry, _University_ —students. Alfred almost wishes that he can join the revelry but he, along with at least half the people here, have at least one more test left before the final end of the term and he needs to get back and study.

Alfred sighs and forges onwards, trying to catch a glimpse of the two ( _idiots_ ) rich kids that he’s been watching for the last year. He stumbles through the house (mansion; palace; _castle_ ), astonished by the architecture, the overall age of this European wonder. Put any teen in a place like this, he decides, and they’re bound to lose their heads; their minds; their common sense.

Alfred, having grown up in the very heart of New Orleans, Louisiana, knows the perfect formula on how to make any and almost all teenagers/young adults lose their minds be they Alphas, Betas, or the ever-meek Omegas: alcohol, this type of low, thrumming music, somber lights, and any and all other types contraband are pretty much solid variables. And this party, of course, has all of them. Plus the added flashing, neon lights that he has no idea where they’re even coming from.

Alfred swears again as someone slams into him, spilling any number of drinks on his outfit which consists of a simple pair of jeans, a plain, too big black shirt, and his favorite (read: _only_ ) pair of sneakers. Francis, dearest _big brother_ that he is, had called the outfit an abomination; Arthur had snorted and stared it down with contempt. Alfred had then reminded them that he wasn’t there to look good: he was there to make sure they didn’t do anything stupid which had made the two Alphas laugh at the _Beta’s_ audacity. When ‘Their’ mother had agreed with Alfred, the two had stared at him with disdain but had gone on with their lives, thankfully leaving Alfred alone.

He shakes his head and turns the glare at whoever had spilled the liquid all over him, thus ruining one of his favorite shirts. His gaze meets two bright red eyes ( _fuck,_ what is it with rich kids and colored contacts?!) and a head of snow-white hair. The kid, who, let’s be honest, is probably years older than the seventeen-year old, snickers at him before someone slaps him, causing him to flinch and rub the offending spot. He turns to glare at someone outside of Alfred’s range of vision and, before he can say anything, the red-eyed dude steps forward and grabs Alfred by the forearm.

Alfred, having spent years learning how to fight, has to fight of the urge to break the guy’s wrist, or, at the very least, incapacitate the dude enough for him to get away.

The stranger leads him away, weaving through the crowd of people, seemingly ignoring everyone as they’re jostled to and fro, someone even managing to slam an elbow into Alfred’s side. Alfred finds it astonishing that anyone could ever find this type of chaos entertaining.

After climbing three or four flights of stairs, the two stop in front of a door. The stranger shoves it open, shouting orders in a language that Alfred can barely understand (German, though, right?). Having spent almost a year on this rock of ages, Alfred feels fairly confident that he can name at least half of the languages spoken, or at least half of the ones he hears.

The stranger shoves Alfred into the room, ordering the pair already in there out. He turns the light on and Alfred winces and blinks at the suddenly very bright overhead light. It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust but when he does he sees a messy room about the size of his old house, and a king-sized bed with its comforters and sheets thrown everywhere.

The guy that had dragged him in there mutters something in what he now definitely recognizes as German and Alfred clears his throat and shrugs,

“If you wanna say something then can you kindly say it in English?”

The dude stares at him and snorts, his expression as disinterested as he’s used to by now and shakes his head, no doubt insulting everything about Alfred. A second later, Alfred turns at the sound of the door opening, tensed and ready for a fight. He relaxes, though, when he sees a pretty girl with long brown hair and bright green eyes who looks around Francis and Arthur’ age. He frowns and lets his gaze dance between the two, wondering just what’s going on.

“Have you picked one yet?” The girl demands, thankfully in English. Her tone is authoritative, every bit of an Alpha’s orders as anything Alfred’s heard. Alfred clears his throat, trying to catch her attention. When she turns to look at him, Alfred smiles sheepishly and waves.

“Howdy there,” he drawls, still confused. “Err… what’s going on? Who are you?”

The girl beams and reaches for Alfred’s hands, shaking it firmly between her own, “My name’s Elizabeta Héderváry and you can call me Liz!” she tells him, still firmly pumping his hands. Alfred can’t help but notice callouses on her palms. Her gaze suddenly falls to the other stranger’s back, stooped over and reaching for a shirt here or there. She wrinkles her nose, “that’s Gilbert,” she tells Alfred with obvious distaste. “He’s the idiot that spilled the drink.”

“It was an accident!” The dude—Gilbert—calls as he finally stoops and picks up a shirt. He turns it between his fingers and then raises an eyebrow at Elizabeta— _Liz_. “ _Gut_?”

“Is it clean?”

Gilbert raises the shirt to his nose, smells it twice, and then nods, “It smells clean.”

“You’re a pig, Gilbert,” Liz deadpans. Gilbert rolls his eyes and tosses the shirt to Alfred. Alfred catches it, though it’s due entirely to years’ worth of training. Alfred stares at the shirt in his hand, to Gilbert, and then, finally, to Liz.

“I don’t—what?”

“For one thing,” Liz states, reaching for the hem of Alfred’s black shirt and pulling it over his head, which then causes Alfred to begin flailing about somewhat pathetically, “that shirt is atrocious. I think the idiot was doing you a favour by spilling Vodka on it—“

“Hey!” Gilbert protests, only to be ignored by Liz. Something about this Gilbert’s demeanor reminds Alfred more of a Beta than an Alpha. She finally manages to remove the shirt and begins eyeing Alfred appreciatively. Alfred frowns and holds the now borrowed shirt out in front of him, blocking her view.

“Do you mind?”

“Aww,” she coos, reaching up and pinching his cheek like he’s a three-year old. “Someone’s blushing!”

She somehow manages to snatch the shirt away and begins studying Alfred. Her gaze lingers on the colorful _fleur-de-lis_ on Alfred’s hip at the same time that Gilbert whistles appreciatively.

“Nice wings,” he praises and Liz grabs his shoulder and spins him around, nearly throwing Alfred off balance and drawing an indignant, “hey!” from Alfred.

From that moment on, like all the other times, Alfred vows to never go to one of these stupid parties with the two royals again. He’ll call in sick or something or get someone to take his place as babysitter.

Liz once again ignores Alfred and he can feel her tracing the outline of the eagle wings tattoo across and between his shoulders. He ‘gracefully’ shies away from her touch and spins on his heels, quickly grabbing the shirt that she had taken and sliding it on before she can argue. When she crosses her arms and glares up at him, Alfred crosses his arms and pouts down at her.

“Are we done objectifying me?” He demands as he crouches down to snatch his original shirt from off the ground. “Because I’m done.”

Both Europeans share a smile and begin to snigger, ignoring Alfred’s unamused glare.

“He looks like a baby,” Gilbert adds, earning another glare from Alfred, though that does him very little good. “Or at least a young child, _ja_? Are you even old enough to be here?” He asks, directing the question at Alfred. Before he can answer, Liz intervenes,

“I think he’s cute! I can see a bit of Francis in him, though, can’t you? I still can’t believe that Francis has a half-brother and an _American_ one no less!”

“Well, his father wasn’t exactly the most faithful person—“

“I know, but still! Francis is always so elegant and poised and his brother,” she makes a vague, insulting motion in Alfred’s general direction and Alfred glares at her.

“I am right here, you know.”

She laughs and nods, reaching out and ruffling Alfred’s hair like he’s _her_ little brother.  “You _are_ cute! I can kind of see the resemblance…”

“Where are you looking?” Gilbert demands and Alfred can’t help but agree with the guy. But, then again, Alfred’s hardly the best at noticing how alike siblings are unless the kids are twins.

“Look at the shape of the jaw! Or the nose or the eyes!”

“Please, it’s like comparing a house cat to a cheetah.”

“Hey Gilbert,” Alfred begins, feeling really annoyed by the dude’s attitude. “Say squirrel.”

Gilbert glares daggers at Alfred and smirks, his red eyes (seriously, those have got to be fake!) glowing dangerously. “Say _Eichhörnchen_ ** _.”_**

Alfred scowls at the man and ‘humphs’.

Liz rolls her eyes at them and snaps her fingers in front of Alfred’s nose, gaining his attention. Suddenly, Alfred remembers why he was stumbling through this hell. Before she can say anything, Alfred asks,

“Speaking of Francis, have you seen him anywhere? Or Arthur?”

Both Gilbert and Liz share an unreadable expression before Liz clears her throat and grins—the expression seeming somewhat forced—at Alfred, “hey, how about you hang out with Gilbert and me for a bit, yeah? You can meet a lot of people that way!”

“ _Ja_! Hang out with the awesome me and,” he makes some vague motion in Liz’s direction which earns him a swift smack upside his snow-colored hair. After a bit of whining on Gilbert’s part, Liz continues,

“Yeah! We can introduce you to some football players. _European_ football players,” Liz adds quickly at seeing Alfred’s reaction. “There are a couple up-and-coming actors and actresses downstairs and—“

“Not to mention my awesome _kleiner bruder!”_

“You’re—“

“Little brother,” Liz supplies at Alfred’s confused expression. When his eyes widen and he nods, Gilbert claps his hands together and looks as though he’d just written the Magna Carta and the Constitution in a single go. As Gilbert reaches for Alfred, he frowns and steps back.

“That’s cool and all—and I’m really grateful, don’t get me wrong!—but I have to study for a test and they need to get home. So, could you…”

He trails off at their expressions—Liz looking both sheepish and bright-eyed and Gilbert looking, well, mischievous is the only word that comes to mind.

Alfred glances between the two, confused. “Umm… what are you—“

“I can show you where they are!” Gilbert volunteers while looking far too excited by the prospect of showing him something. Liz looks like she can’t decide to be amused or to reprimand Gilbert. Finally, though, she just laughs and shakes her head before turning and walking out the door, calling out an amused,

“Be careful!”

“Wait,” Alfred begins as Gilbert snatches his wrist and begins dragging him out of the room. Alfred stares desperately at Liz over his shoulder. “Wait, what did she mean by ‘be care’—“

“ _Nichts_ ,” Gilbert interrupts, still dragging Alfred along through a throng of people. Alfred can feel the other’s hand tighten around his own, as though insuring that he doesn’t lose Alfred.

After what feels like forever, Alfred sees Gilbert glance at him over his shoulder and say something that’s lost over the roar of, well, everything. The two duck around a hallway that’s somewhat quieter though no more lighter than everywhere else. At his side, Gilbert is still grinning that somewhat maniacal grin and Alfred eyes him warily, morbidly curious.

Alfred glances around them. “Okay, where are they?”

Gilbert’s eyes dance wickedly and he jerks his thumb at one of the closed door, his smirk growing. “In there, boy-o. Good luck and tell your brother I said ‘hey’.”

With that, Gilbert slaps Alfred on the shoulder and shoves him towards the door. Alfred careens forward and just barely manages to stop himself from face-palming against a door that no doubt costs more than what he makes in a year. Alfred turns to glare at Gilbert, only to realize his so-called ‘friend’ is nowhere to be seen.

Definitely nervous by this point, Alfred reaches for a small Swiss army knife that’s neatly hidden in his pocket and places his hand on the doorknob. He turns the knob slowly, knife at the ready, and quietly pushes the door open.

The door isn’t even entirely open when Alfred hears a quiet moan from the other side, the ruffling of sheets, and a murmur of voices that are both familiar and unfamiliar. Alfred slowly edges around the door and pushes it further until he’s entirely within the room. Alfred closes the door and turns to face the room.

It’s awash in the light colors from the moon outside that’s sneaking in through the open window, casting a ghostly light on the room. Alfred assumes that the room might look amazing in proper light but his eyes are drawn immediately to the two figures on the bed.

Both figures are alight with a silver glow, making them appear almost ethereal. Alfred, even in the dark, can tell which figure is Arthur and which figure is Francis.

Francis, his ‘big brother’, is the figure on his back, one knee drawn upwards and the other curling around, his body arching upwards and releasing a deep, keening moan that makes Alfred start. Above him, straddling his waist, sits Arthur, his head bent and his silvery hair slowly traveling down, down, down only to stop suddenly. The sudden shifting of Arthur reveals that Francis has forsaken his jeans. Alfred swallows heavily, not entirely sure what to do from here.

Before he can make a decision, Alfred watches as Arthur’s head sinks beneath Francis’ waist, earning louder, throatier moan from the Frenchman. Alfred watches as Francis’ hand reaches forward, combing through Arthur’s hair and latching onto the silver strands. Whatever Arthur does next, it causes France to moan louder, his hips bucking up, and his body arches even more. Arthur’s hands reach out to grab Francis’ hips, holding them firmly in place.

From where he’s standing, Alfred can’t seem to convince his feet to move or to tear his eyes away from the scene. He’s distantly surprised by the sudden tightness in his own jeans.

As he watches, Francis suddenly releases another groan, his body arching enough that his back leaves the surface of the bed. He watches as Arthur, practically crouched in front of Francis, slides back onto the bed to once again straddle his waist, his slim, finely muscled back arched and glowing with the light of the moon outside, and his hands planted firmly on either side of Francis. The two Alphas could be gods of old, from the way the moon seems to love them.

From outside, someone slams against the door, no doubt drunk of their asses. Alfred jumps and something—whether the loud ‘thump’ from outside or his surprised movements—causes the two on the bed to look up towards the door and, inadvertently, towards him.

He stares at them, distantly expecting the normally emotional Briton to start growling at him, telling him to get ‘the bloody hell out, ya fucking _Yank_.’ However, Alfred can’t seem to focus entirely on anything outside of the strangely silver liquid that circles Arthur’s lips, the Brit’s usually messy hair mused and either sticking out or (as Alfred has seen often enough with his training and all) glued to his forehead due to perspiration, and the lithe muscles of Francis’ arms and stomach as the Frenchman pushes himself up so that he can lean against his forearms.

His eyes study the slowly growing smirk on Arthur’s face as he pointedly brushes his thumb against his lower lips and, still holding Alfred’s gaze, slowly slides the finger between his lips. Beneath him, his hair a tangled, silvery mess, Francis chuckles and holds out a hand. A sweet demon, Alfred thinks distantly, to Arthur’s outright devil.

“Care to join us, _mon ami_?” Francis asks, his voice lower and much different than anything Alfred’s ever heard from the Frenchman. Before Alfred has a chance to answer—though he doesn’t have the slightest idea of how exactly he _would_ answer—someone slams into the door again, startling Alfred enough that he jumps slightly.

He hears two low chuckles from the occupants in the bed and, his face burning, he mutters an apology and something about finding a ride back to the house (mansion; palace; castle). He spins on his heels and without hesitation opens the door, leaving the room without a backward glance and trying to block out the continuous chuckles from the two guys ( _idiots_ ) in the room. He closes the door with a firm ‘click’ and leans against the wall, leaning forward, his hands braced on his knees, his face still burning. He has no doubt that if the place was lit normally, then everyone would be able to see how bright red his face is.

Alfred, quite suddenly, remembers that he’s the current guard on duty and he can’t leave the two here without anyone to watch them. Hell, losing them earlier was something that he definitely shouldn’t have done and was an action that could get him in so much trouble with his superiors if (and, most likely _when_ ) they find out.

Alfred releases and shaky breath and runs one hand through his hair and squeezes the other one tightly, forgetting about the Swiss Army knife until he feels a sting and realizes that he’s probably just cut himself, maybe even deep enough to warrant stitches.

He squeezes his eyes shut and reaches for his discarded shirt, tightly wrapping the now throbbing hand tightly enough to clot the bleeding but not enough to damage it further. He wonders distantly if he’s cut a nerve or something.

From where he is, and despite the roar of the crowd around him, Alfred hears a faint groan from the room and he has no trouble envisioning what’s going on. He releases a faint breath and cups his own arousal through his jeans, his head bowed. He closes his eyes, suddenly extremely sensitive to almost every sensation around him (the pulsating music; the softness of his eyelashes against his cheekbones; the vibrations of the music against the wall he’s currently leaning against) and has to literally stop himself from slipping his uninjured hand beneath the waistband of his jeans. He’s sure that in this dark, musty house (mansion; palace; castle) that no one would think twice about it—

 _You’re on duty_ , his mind, the soldier—the _guard_ berates him, reminding Alfred painfully of why he’s even in Europe and at this stupid party and outside that room. He drops both of his hands to hi side, but then thinks better of it and slides them slowly down his thighs, resting them once again against his knees. Back still pressed against the wall, he slowly slides down the structure until he’s sitting with his back pressed firmly against the wall with his knees drawn to his chest. He tries to ignore the uncomfortable tightness of his jeans and instead wraps the ruined shirt more tightly around his injured hand. He leans his head back against the wall, feeling the pounding music and the low humming of the bass.

He’s quietly astonished by the general chaos he’s right now a part of, his mind wandering unwillingly to the quiet room and the way that all noise, save for the soft grunts, had been silenced. He forces away the thought that reminds him that _that_ type quiet is what he’d been looking for practically the entire night—that calm, muted peace.

He takes in another deep breath and rests his forearms on his knees, leaning his head back against the wall, and trying to force all thoughts away that have nothing to do with his job.

He pretends to not hear the sounds emanating from inside that quiet room as noise that roars from all around him. He also, much later when he swears he’s not dozing, chooses to ignore the feeling of soft hands running through his hair and pushing it out of his face. 

If he can ignore the feelings for long enough they’ll go away, right? 

**One Year Previous**

There are a lot of things that Alfred understands.

He understands science and math; engines. He understands that his father, a decorated soldier and veteran, died fighting for his son and his wife. He understands that his mother—beautiful and dark and mysterious—had no choice when she left her child at her mother’s doorstep in New Orleans. He understands that, even at a young age that he was undeniably good with numbers and formulas, yet bumbled and mixed up his letters and dates. He understands that he is what society deems as an Omega and that he should be grateful that this secret, governmental department had taken him in and trained him when the rest of society only saw a pretty figure lying on his back, knees spread apart.

He understands that his ailing grandmother had been thinking about what was best for her grandchild, keeping her only daughter’s child with her in New Orleans.

He understands that, after his grandmother died and the strange men in dark suits had picked him up at the hospital that he was in for one hell of a ride.

What the seventeen year-old doesn’t understand is why the secret service of two other countries would seek out a branch of the American government that, for all intents and purposes, doesn’t exist and ask for help guarding the sons of two powerful European families.

He understands even less when they ask for _him_.

“Your grades and scores are off the charts,” one of his trainers, an older Agent named Sitwell tells him as Alfred continues to study him with wide-eyed shock. “And you can easily pass for a student at one of the Universities there.”

“I’m seventeen, though, and an Omega!” Alfred argues, though he makes sure that his tone is respectfully low and doesn’t gain the attention of the four guards outside the room. He’s pretty sure that just because the French servicemen/women are adamant about speaking French, they can understand English perfectly. “Yeah, sure I’m good at math and science but so’s Yao. Cameroon’s amazing when it comes to engines and Ivan’s got the most field experience not to mention that they’re all certifiably _Betas_. Pretty sure that Ivan’s an Alpha, _but_ —”

“Because you need more field experience; because you won’t be alone in guarding the two kids; because you can easily pass for a student or the bastard brother of one of them; and because S.H.I.E.L.D needs a foot in the door in other international agencies.”

“Umm… do _they_ know about all of these reasons?”

“They do and M16 and DGSE will use this to their advantage just as much as we will.”

“Aaaand… this has nothing to do with the attacks on New York and the chitauri?”

“It might,” Sitwell concedes and then shakes his head, “or it might not. Either way—“

“I’m to follow orders,” Alfred responds when Sitwell takes a pointed pause. “And my orders are…”

“You start Monday,” Sitwell begins in his ‘I mean business’ talk. “Your plane leaves Friday and you will be given the appropriate files for this case. Pack only essentials and be ready to leave in two days. Do I make myself clear?”

“But, I—“

“ _Do I make myself clear?_ ”

Alfred swallows his arguments, his excuses, every reason why this is a bad idea, and nods, rising from his seat and outstretching his hands. When Sitwell takes it, Alfred answers,

“Yes, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this is and I honestly don't think that I should regret this. Also, please please leave a review after reading this because I need validation that this was good and if this is good then I'll probably consider writing more for this. 
> 
> It should also be noted that I made Alfred an Omega because I can now say I ship him with almost everyone under the sun yet at the same time I can totally see the dork being Ace. Or pan. Alfred just loves everyone in my head. 
> 
> So, yeah. Reviews are sweet like nectar and everyone have a nice night/day!


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